The Lady Lancelot
by StarlightAsteria
Summary: Maybe it's because of her height, or because she is unashamedly a lady, well-mannered, and, she hopes, kind, or because her eyes also sparkle with a fierce, intimidating kind of intelligence and determination, but she's rarely treated as an equal. And so something unexpected sparks within her at the show of respect. She's determined to show she's worthy of it. Eventual Roxlin.
1. Chapter The First

She wakes early the day the Kingsman selection starts, adrenaline kicking its way through her body under the covers of her four poster bed in her room in her guardian's manor. She dresses with her usual care: racing green jodhpurs, white silk shirt and tailored tweed jacket and brown leather boots polished to a reflective mahogany sheen.

Over toast and mushroom scrambled eggs, her guardian and uncle knows not to crowd her head with last minute advice, and she smiles in recognition.

"Be ready to leave in two hours, niece." His voice is calm and full of the optimistic, gentle affection she's grown up receiving from him.

"I will be, uncle."

 _Three days earlier, Kingsman HQ_

Merlin flips through the file, his long fingers turning page after page of black, closely typed notes. "Roxanne Helena Caecilia Emilia de Lornay Mainwaring-Morton. The daughter of the Earl of - you're certain this is who you want to propose, Percival?"

"I have no doubts. I never have."

Merlin looks at him seriously then, his face impassive. Percival knows he finds it hard to believe what he's hearing. After all, there's never been a female Kingsman agent recruit, much less a selected Knight.

"Read her file, Merlin. I guarantee it, you'll be impressed."

Merlin throws his fellow knight a withering glare, not even deigning to reply verbally. It's a well known fact that it takes a lot to impress him. With a tilt of his head, he replies, genuinely interested, "How are you so certain?"

Percival's answering smirk as he swirls his glass of whisky - single malt, no ice - in his left hand is positively wicked.

"She's more than my niece and goddaughter, Merlin. I raised and trained her myself." He pauses, frowning, before continuing in a much more serious tone of voice. "My bastard of a brother and his wife never cared about her in the slightest. They have their heir, Hector, and nothing else matters to them."

Merlin's eyes light with understanding, and he shakes his head, rueful laughter slipping through his lips as he looks at the photograph of the remarkably pretty twenty-two year old. "This is your Roxy," he says, thinking of all the times Percival has come into HQ over the years practically bursting the seams of his bespoke suits with pride at something his ward, known to all of Kingsman as _Percy's Roxy,_ has done, excitedly regaling his fellows with stories of her latest exploit at school, and as she's got older, tales of her beauty, her fire, her exquisite disarming in three moves of the under-eighteen world fencing champion at the age of fourteen…

"This is my Roxy, as you say." Percival confirms. "She's small, but she's got more balls on her than all of the Oxford rowing team put together." With a teasing grin, he says," This is all in her file of course, but she read History at Christ Church -"

"She's a Member of the House? Oh, that's _excellent._ " There's a wry, mischevious glint in Merlin's eyes that Percival knows to to be wary of. "If she becomes Lancelot, I'll finally have someone to prank all the boring Mertonians and Balliol prats with," (he pointedly ignores Percival's snorted _sod off)_ "not to mention what we'll be able to do those poor devils who went to _the other place._ "

"Yes, you're happy about not being outnumbered any more, understood." Percival cuts him off, laughing, before standing smoothly with the coiled grace of the predator that he is. "But in all seriousness, she knows how to handle herself."

"Good."

"Her argentine tango is also absolutely flawless," Percival remarks off-handedly as he opens the door to Merlin's office and leaves him alone.

Merlin sits motionless for a few seconds, before abruptly standing and pouring himself a generous measure of whisky. His hands are shaking. _What?_ he asks himself. No matter how much he stares out of the Georgian windows of his study, trying to admire the spectacular view of the grounds he's been given, Percival's insidious parting words won't leave him. They work their way into his skin, a mantra surging through his veins, making his heart pound until he feels dizzy.

 _Her argentine tango is also absolutely flawless._

And with that, he knows he's fucked, even if he won't admit it to himself.

As she sits in the passenger seat of the vintage Jag - racing green, what else? - as they tear down country lanes, her long golden hair being whipped into a long streak of sunlight behind her, eyes protected by a spare pair of her uncle's driving goggles, she attempts to control her nerves in the way she's always done before a fencing competition or before an exam. She hums Elgar's Nimrod Variation under her breath, matching her breathing to its slow, heartbreaking tempo, trying to enjoy the roar of the Jag's engine as Percival steers it round a series of hairpins, one leather-clad hand gripping the steering wheel, the other on the gearstick, an expression of boyish glee on his face.

She's grown up on a diet of fencing, academics, dancing, and Percival's stories of Kingsman. Tales of their daring and intelligence, of Galahad's umbrella and Merlin's glasses and Tristan's poison-resistant gloves. And now she's going to meet them. And now she's going to do her damnest to show them all, these names and figures that loom larger than life in her head, that she belongs there. That she deserves to be a Knight at their table. And not just any Knight, but _Lancelot._

"Almost there, Roxy," her uncle tells her, taking in her small hands clenched tightly into fists and her sharp focus on the road in front of them, as they pull up at a set of impressive gates at eighty miles an hour.

"Uncle?"

Percival doesn't reply to her incredulous question as the gates open - through some sort of recognition sensor, she assumes - without him needing to slow down. If anything, he speeds up as they roar down an oak flanked drive, the engine noise drowning her gasp of surprise.

"ETA five minutes, Merlin." Percival suddenly says over his comms, making her look at him, trying to keep her face from showing the stomach churning mix of nerves and excitement and adrenaline that's making her knees tremble. Percival catches her glance and his boyish grin widens. "Actually, Merlin, make that two minutes."

Her eyes widen.

"You have nothing to worry about, Roxy. Believe me, you're ready for this. More than ready. So chin up, young lady, and show them what you're made of." She lets her uncle's warm words wash over her, a calming voice.

"Thanks, uncle."

Percival grins back at her, and says as the Georgian manor that is Kingsman HQ comes into view, "Merlin'll meet us there."

And then he floors it so they arrive outside the main entrance, a Palladian affair with a colonnade and portico, tyres squealing on the gravel. She groans when Percival decides to stop by executing a perfect flying handbrake turn, leaping out of the Jag with far too much energy for the fifty-something that he is.

She gets out of the car far less flamboyantly, rips off her driving goggles, dropping them back in her seat and lifting her bag out with her left hand, before following her uncle up the steps.

The man waiting for them in front of massive oak doors is tall, wearing a black suit, and holding what she will soon learn is his ever present tablet clipboard. She puts him somewhere in his mid forties, and she knows this is Merlin.

Their eyes meet and something indefinable flickers in his eyes before his face is suddenly impassive again. She blushes, and she's suddenly aware of how disheveled she must look, with her windswept blonde hair all over the place. It's not the first impression she wants to make, but she resists the urge to run her hands through it and tie it up, because that would only draw attention to it, show that she's uncomfortable, and schools her face into a polite smile.

"Come on, Roxy!" Percival calls, and that draws a genuine laugh from her, her uncle's cheerfulness taking her back into safe, familiar territory. But she's not going to use Percival to hide behind, because that would imply she's only a little girl unable to take care of herself and unfit for the position of Lancelot, so she squares her shoulders and focuses on maintaining the excellent posture ballet's taught her.

"Welcome to Kingsman HQ, Lady Roxanne Morton," Merlin says formally, bowing over her hand in a gesture that makes her suck in a quick breath. She's not used to such unaffected galantry: the guys her own age - she really hesitates to use the word _men -_ are either drunken idiots or superlicious snobs. Maybe it's because of her height, or because she is unashamedly a lady, well-mannered, and, she hopes, kind, or because her eyes also sparkle with a fierce, intimidating kind of intelligence and determination, but she's rarely treated as an equal. And so something unexpected sparks within her at the show of respect. She's determined to show she's worthy of it.

"Roxy, this is Merlin, a fellow Old Member of the House, as I believe you call it." Percival waves his hand vaguely in Merlin's direction and watches as she smiles delightedly.

"Really?" She exclaims. "Oh, how wonderful!" Turning to her uncle mischeviously, she grins and says, "Perhaps I'll finally be able to persuade you of the quality of the House Port!" And it's so unexpected that Merlin chokes out a laugh and returns her smile with an uplifted quirk of his lips.

Percival and Merlin open the doors for her and watch as she steps inside, eyes bright and curious, taking in the richness of the furnishings and the wealth of state of the art technology she sees. She's led down corridor after corridor, passing a library that she's pretty certain takes up an entire wing of the manor, a forty-foot long dining hall, and to her great delight, a salle d'armes from which she hears the distinctive sounds of clashing foils and sabres. Percival asks whether any of the other trainees are there yet as they reach the steel grey of the dormitory doors in one of the many underground floors.

"Two," is Merlin's neutral reply. "A young lady called Amelia, and Arthur's candidate-

"-So some sort of stuck-up snob, more than likely." Percival interjects, and Roxy laughs softly, shaking her head.

"I can handle that."

"Of course you can."

"If you'd let me finish, Percival?" Merlin asks pointedly. Percival gestures for Merlin to go on. "A young man around your age."

"What's his name?" She asks.

"Charlie Hesketh."

It's like she's gone deaf, all of a sudden. The lights in the corridor blur into a single golden sun and she suddenly realises her nails are digging sharply into the palms of her hands. Her breath leaves her so immediately she feels as though she's been kicked in the chest by a horse and been sent flying, crashing, into a wall. There's bile, sharp as acid, rising in her throat and she wants to scream.

"Roxy! ROXY!" Someone's shaking her shoulders and she blinks open eyes she didn't even know she'd closed. It's her uncle, warm hands placed firmly on her shoulders, a frown etched deeply into his face as he keeps her trembling frame in place. "Roxy! Are you alright?"

She takes a deep breath and nods slowly. He's not here, so she's alright. But she's going to have to share a dormitory with him and other people and the thought is almost enough to send her fleeing back to her impossibly constrained civilian life. And as much as she never, ever, ever, wants to see Charlie Hesketh again, she equally can't abide the idea of wasting the opportunity to show that she's more capable than he or any of the others will be, so she takes another deep breath and meets her uncle's eyes steadily.

And then he asks her something which almost breaks her. "Do you know him?" It takes every bit of self control she has, every fibre in her very being, to keep herself together and not show him, not show _Merlin_ the soul-destroying fear that's taken her in its vicious grip.

"Yes. Though by God I wish I didn't."

Her uncle's very far from stupid, and by the slight widening of his eyes and the almost painful tightening of his fingers on her shoulders, she knows he's read between the lines, and she can't bear it, can't bear Percival's pity and the sudden weight of Merlin's gaze on her, so she softly kisses her uncle's cheek, and keeping a firm grip on her bag, walks straight into the dormitory without looking back.

"Merlin," Percival begins shakily, "Please, don't let her out of your sight." _As if I could,_ Merlin thinks, the image of her walking away from them so decisively burning itself into his mind, before he catches himself and swallows, unaware that Percival is watching him carefully.

Merlin turns to Percival.

"My office?"

The door's locked and both of them are nursing a much needed whisky in their hands, although it's only four in the afternoon. Percival glances impatiently at the monitor screens as they flicker from black to live. With a few tapped commands into his keyboard, Merlin pulls up the live feed and audio from the dormitory, and the Kingsmen turn their full attention to the screen.

Roxy's packing her things away. She's chosen the bed next to Amelia, and Charlie's looking her up and down, and Merlin sees the exact moment recognition makes his leering expression even uglier. Merlin's jaw clenches, and he takes a quick sip of his whisky, glancing across at Percival. The other Kingsman is tense, his expression nervous, knowing without a doubt that he's not going to like what he's going to see.

Charlie comes up behind Roxy as she's placing a demure set of pajamas neatly on her pillow. He stops so he's not only breathing down her neck, but trapped her against the bed. She freezes, and Merlin sees her twist her fingers into the sheets to hide their trembling.

"Well, well, well, fancy meeting you here, Roxy-doxy!" Percival snarls at the insult and Merlin fights the sudden wave of nausea that threatens to send him to his knees.

"Leave me alone, Hesketh." She doesn't turn around.

"Oh, come on, Roxy! You've got to tell me what a little girl like you is doing with men like us. Or was one stint in a dorm with a group of guys in the RAF over the long vac not enough? Your hair's even like it was then, so _wild._ If sex hair is your way of letting people know you're up for it, we-ell, let me tell you, my little spitfire-"

"Don't you _dare_ call me that." Roxy hisses, her voice low, glancing at Amelia, but quickly coming to the conclusion that she won't get any help from that quarter. Amelia is pretending to ignore everything that's going on, because her brief is to observe, even though Merlin suddenly wishes she'd break her role and help Roxy, he knows that's not going to happen. And he fights the all-too familiar surge of helplessness that he also feels when one of his agents is in danger. He's there, he's watching everything, hearing everything, hearing all the cries of pain and the last words before death, and he has to suffer through it without showing anyone, because he's Merlin and it's his job to reassure everyone else, even when he knows it's futile.

And all of a sudden Charlie's hands are all over her and Merlin clearly sees her choke back a sob and he can read her face so clearly, sees her shame and her fear - god, he doesn't think he's seen anyone so terrified before - and her despair and her thoughts that this is ruining her chances of becoming Lancelot, before her expression shutters. Merlin's gripped by the thought that she's given up, but then she stamps down on his instep with her boot and elbows him in the ribs as he yelps in pain and lets go of her. She spins and then she's downed him in the blink of an eye with a well placed knee to his crotch.

"Yes, Roxy!" Percival shouts. "You brave, brilliant, _brilliant_ girl." Merlin sighs with relief, his heartbeat pounding deafeningly in his ears.

On the screen, Roxy crouches down beside the groaning Charlie and enunciates primly, but coldly, so coldly that Merlin decides he doesn't ever want to hear such a chilling sound pass through her lips ever again. "I sleep with a knife on me, so I wouldn't ever try something like what you did at the RAF, Hesketh. If you touch me again, _Captain,_ I will _end_ you." And in that moment Merlin knows she's as deadly as any of the Kingsmen.

And then she turns away and continues her unpacking as though nothing's happened, but Merlin sees the small signs that give her away - her trembling fingers as she lifts out a delicate golden necklace and puts it on her bedside table, her quick, furtive wipes at her eyes when she turns to put her clothes in her cupboard.

The two Kingsmen watch the footage a little longer to make sure nothing else kicks off, but it soon becomes apparent that Charlie is in no state to do anything to Roxy. When Merlin switches the screen off, Percival suddenly grabs the wastepaper basket and retches into it. Merlin wordlessly passes him tissues and another glass of whisky, also pouring a generous measure for himself and downing it in a single swallow.

"Dear god," Merlin whispers when they're both seated again. He looks at Percival. "Did she tell you anything before this?"

"No. But now we know he was at Oxford with her, two years above if we do the maths, and he assaulted her at the very least." Percival replies, pale, voice broken. "How could anyone do this? God, it's disgusting, and if I knew it wouldn't put more strain on Roxy because then she'd have to testify in front of all the Kingsmen I'd go straight to Arthur and demand he choose another candidate. No-one, no-one hurts her and gets away with it."

"I know, Perce, I know." He can only commiserate, but words aren't enough, fuck, can never be enough in a situation like this. "That was as bad as watching Lancelot die."

"That's why, god, Merlin, please, just- keep her away from him as much as possible."

"You know I can't be seen to be favouring her, Perce."

"My god, Merlin, it wouldn't be favouring her at all - it would be evening things out!" Percival shouts angrily. Merlin leaps from his chair and places his hands firmly on the other man's shoulders.

"Listen, Perce, you know that, and I know that. But Arthur doesn't."

"Damn it, you're right." Percival chokes out.

There's silence for a long time.

Then - "But your word, Merlin, please."

"You have it." Merlin replies immediately.

"Thank you."

And then he's once again left alone to try and understand everything that's just happened. Charlie was her commanding officer when they were both part of the Oxford Corps of the RAF. And he did _something_ to her. And now they're both competing for the same position. He never wants to see that expression on her face again. He can't imagine what she's feeling, can't comprehend it, doesn't want to, because he knows it will send him mad with horror. And yet there's a fierce spark of admiration, and god, it's not because she appeared in that idiotic car of Percival's with hair tousled from the wind and pink cheeks and bright eyes, because she made him laugh when he didn't expect it at all. Merlin can only feel awed at her bravery. She's the most courageous person he's ever met.

What on earth possessed him to take her delicate hand in his and bow over it?


	2. Chapter The Second

When Eggsy walks into the dormitory Roxy knows, immediately, that she can make an ally of him, dressed as he is in such a way that makes Charlie and his two cronies, Rufus and Digby, snigger. They introduce themselves and from the way he walks, the way he carries himself, she thinks he's ex-marines. His handshake is firm, and his smile without guile.

"Ignore them," she says to him as Charlie saunters up to them and begins taunting him in a drawling voice. But Eggsy fires back, and she laughs, happy to see she won't be alone in bringing the arrogant ponce down a peg or two.

She jumps as the door opens and measured footsteps sound across the floor.

It's Merlin, so they all fall in, snapping to attention, feet shoulder width apart, hands behind their backs, looking straight ahead. The Kingsman considers them all in turn, eyes flicking over them impassively, and she clenches her fingers into fists where no-one can see because his gaze makes her feel so exposed. It's as though he can read everything she is from a single, penetrating look.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Merlin." he says, looking at them all sternly. "You are about to embark on what is probably the most dangerous job interview in the world. One of you, and only one of you, will become the next Lancelot."

He takes the black bag lying innocuously on the bed nearest to him, and Roxy can't help the slight knot of fear that kneads itself into her stomach as she realises what it is. Merlin's tone is deliberately nonchalant as he continues. "Can anybody tells me what this is?" All of them except Eggsy raise their hands in a single, fluid motion.

Merlin gestures to Charlie, the action seemingly at random. But Roxy's observed enough of the way he moves to know that nothing he does is anything less than deliberate. "Yes?" He says.

"Body bag, sir." Charlie replies neutrally.

As part of her wonders why Merlin chose Charlie to answer his question, Merlin indicates that he already knows who they all are. "Correct." He says. "Charlie, isn't it?" Though it's worded as a question, Roxy knows it's a statement.

"Yes, sir." At Charlie's cocky expression at being singled out, Roxy thinks she understands. This is Merlin's way of showing both of them - her and Charlie - that he knows a lot more about them that he's letting on. It's a warning of sorts, not to step out of line, specifically aimed at Charlie. It's an unexpected bit of reassurance, and the flicker in Merlin's expression when she meets his eyes makes her feel slightly more confident about the whole situation she finds herself in.

"Good." Merlin pauses, the slightest furrow appearing in his brow, something she soon comes to understand means he is deathly serious. He is such a formidable presence that he doesn't have to raise his tone of voice in the slightest to make his point. "In a moment, you will each collect a body bag. You will write the details of your next of kin on that bag. This represents your acknowledgement of the risks you are about to face, as well as your agreement to strict confidentiality, which, _incidentally,_ if you break-" his voice becomes even more dangerous "- will result in you and your next of kin being in that bag." He allows his gaze to fall on each of them in turn. "Do you understand?"

They nod in reply, and Merlin seems satisfied, so he dismisses them before leaving the room as quietly and as elegantly as he came in.

Roxy takes the marker and prints _P. Mainwaring-Morton_ on the bag in neat letters and then shoves it underneath her bed so she doesn't have to look at it.

The instantaneous snap of an LED light appearing into existence like a distress flare is what wakes her, she realises. Then the sound of panicked scrabbling. Digby - at least she thinks it's Digby - stands on his bed, springs squeaking. Roxy reaches behind her to turn her own light on and that's when she notices the water, inky black and rising fast.

Disorientated, her body responds faster than her mind and she's standing upright as the water reaches her thighs before she's conscious of having moved. She looks at the others, seeing similar panic on their faces.

They're in a dormitory and they're going to drown, unless they think of something.

 _Fast._

A half-remembered line from an RAF physics textbook makes her shout, "Loo snorkels!" She only has time to register Charlie, of all people, agreeing with her before the water is lapping at her shoulders and she has to swim.

Underwater, everything is a curious metal blue, no doubt from the LEDs and the utilitarian decor of the dormitory, and the other recruits are darker shadows, writhing, twisting, all of them fighting the burning sensation that begins to creep into their lungs, a prelude to suffocation. Because she's half the size of the others, she's the one at the greatest disadvantage, both in terms of her physical strength, affecting the speed at which she can swim, and because her lungs are smaller.

She grits her teeth and pulls herself through the water, determined to reach the showers on the far side of the dormitory. In the low light, fighting the pressure in her head and lungs, it's difficult to unscrew the shower-heads and plunge them into the toilet bowl and push them round the U-bend, but she manages it just as she thinks she might fall unconscious from the dizzying pain in her chest.

She takes the shower pipe into her mouth and sucks in a mouthful of air and the sudden rush of oxygen, the release of pressure in her lungs is almost enough to make her faint. Only adrenaline and the vaguely registered fact that she's able to breathe keep her coherent. She focuses on taking measured breaths, slowly bringing her heart-rate down to a normal rate after the shock of the last minute has kicked it into the thundering pace of a galloping horse.

Above her, Eggsy is swimming powerfully through the water, and she wants to sigh in relief, because it would appear that he's finally come to join them and create his own snorkel, but relief morphs into confusion as he keeps going past them and heads straight for the mirrored far wall. Before she can make angry gestures at him in a futile attempt at getting him to turn around, Eggsy punches the mirror.

As it begins to shatter, cracks spreading like veins, she realises -

It's a two way mirror.

Which means they can get out.

And then she's swept, torn from her oxygen as the sudden shattering to diamond shards of the mirror creates a current, carried, unable to see, tossed about, hitting the other recruits and being whacked by them as they limbs flail around.

She hits the tiled floor hard, and as she turns her head she can just see the last of the water escaping through drainage flaps in the bottom corners of the room. Groaning at the thought of bruises that are undoubtedly mottling her skin at that very moment, she sees a pair of legs attired in grey suit trousers. Frowning, she looks up, blinking the moisture away from her eyes, and, between gasped, ragged breaths of air, she realises it's Merlin.

The Kingsman waits until they've caught their breaths - slightly - before addressing them. "Congratulations on completing your first task." He looks at them in his usual, impassive considering manner, and she suddenly realises that her pyjamas - a white t-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts - are soaked through, plastered to her skin.

She may as well have been naked.

The others realise this as well and she feels the sudden, uncomfortable weight of their ogling stares on her, lingering on the curve of her breasts - still trembling from adrenaline and exertion - and on her legs.

Unease and disgust combine with the adrenaline and make her tremble violently. Others might feel pride or satisfaction at the blatant appreciation and lust rolling off the male recruits in waves, but she doubts that she'll ever be comfortable at being looked at as a purely sexual object. Pressing her mouth into a thin line, she raises her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. Resting her chin on her knees, she listens as Merlin continues.

"Charlie, Roxy," - he's gentlemanly enough to keep his gaze on her face - "well done." There's a fierce swell of joy in her heart at the praise, even though it is shared with Charlie. "For those of you who are still confused… if you can get a breathing tube round the U-bend of a toilet, you have an unlimited air supply. Simple physics, worth remembering." As he explains, Roxy suddenly understands Merlin not only intends to test them, to push them further than they've ever been pushed before, but that he also intends to guide them - be a mentor.

He wants them to do well.

Whilst he's congratulating Eggsy for spotting the two-way mirror, she ponders the enigma Merlin's laid before her. From what she can see, he's a private man, difficult to impress, but, she suspects, with a softer side to him.

And then he says something that is like a bucket of iced water over her head. If she wasn't already trembling with cold and adrenaline, the cold rebuke, the sense of utter disappointment in his tone would have made her shiver. "You can all wipe those smirks off your faces. Because as far as I'm concerned, every single one of you has failed." She doesn't understand. "You all forgot the most important thing… teamwork," Merlin concludes grimly, gesturing behind him.

Roxy's breath catches in her throat.

Amelia's lying on the floor of the dormitory.

And she's not moving.

All the remaining recruits are moved to another dorm, eerily identical to the one they were in previously, and given standard issue pyjamas and clothes. The mood is just as grim and as tense as Merlin's curt dismissal of them earlier on, after the flooding of the dormitory and - she can barely comprehend the thought - Amelia's drowning - because all of them were too focused on themselves.

It's the roughest recalibrating of her perception of herself she thinks she's ever received.

She, of all people - who prides herself on being kind, on caring about others as well, _should_ have realised Amelia wasn't with them. But she can only plead the fact that she understands, now, that her instincts, her emotions, overpowered her thinking through of the situation. It's humiliating, to face the fact that she's become complacent - complacent in her beliefs in her own abilities, in her own moral qualities.

She wasn't nearly observant enough, and the price for that was a human life.

It's a terrifying awakening.

Hearing the phrase _the most dangerous job interview in the world_ and being confronted with its reality are two very different things. She vows, as she lies in bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling, too wound up still to even contemplate sleep, that she will take each test as seriously as she can. It's the only way she will prove herself capable of the position of Lancelot and keep herself alive.

Despite her reeling thoughts, the deep claws of guilt that tear themselves remorselessly into her stomach, the thought of abandoning the recruitment and going home never crosses her mind. She'll take danger and the very real possibility of her own death every single time over being paraded by her mother (that vague, distant, immaculately coiffed presence) to various rich, unintelligent young men who've spent their time at university wooing their way through beautiful airhead after beautiful airhead. Is it so wrong, so unusual to want more than that from life just because she's a woman?

As selfish as her reasons for applying for the position of Lancelot might sound - she just wants to make something of herself - she doesn't believe any of the others have any better motivations. The idea of duty to her country is nothing more than a nebulous, half-formed ideal in the back of her mind. She wants to do her best, make something of herself, choose her own path in life instead of having it foisted upon her by distant parents, but the true ramifications of serving and potentially dying for her country currently elude her. It's something too intangible to grasp.

Why then, did she agree to be Percival's candidate for Lancelot?

Because he's the only person she's ever trusted.

Because if he tells her she'd be a good fit, she's inclined to believe him. Because she wants to be a part of something good and useful. But she's quickly learning that the reality is far more complex, far more psychologically demanding than the stories of Kingsman she's grown up hearing, spun like heroic legends of old.

As she replays the events of the previous hour over and over again in her mind, she suddenly realises that the two way mirror and Merlin's presence behind it must have meant he was watching them. He watched, let them figure it out for themselves. Let them forget about Amelia.

They will either succeed by their own hands or will simply take enough rope from Merlin to hang themselves with.

It's a sobering thought, one that all too clearly shows the standard that is expected of them.

Succeed, and live. Fail, and die.

It's really that simple.

She already knows she's not going to sleep well tonight.

 _Two hours prior_

He's in his office, the live feed from the recruits' dormitory flashing on the computer screens. They went to sleep about an hour ago, and all is quiet, the lights switched off, but he knows Amelia will still be awake. A quick glance at the left hand monitor confirms it, and he steeples his fingers, elbows resting in front of the keyboard.

He has a decision to make.

The idea of having an inside person, reporting directly back to him, throughout the recruitment process, is a relatively new idea, originating in the Australian branch of Kingsman about fifteen years ago. There's no fixed point at which the fake-candidate must make a suitably noticeable departure from the training programme - it's completely down to the judgement of the Kingsman running the recruitment, and relies on his assessment of the group of candidates.

From the files his fellow knights have given him, and from his own observations, Merlin knows they're a pretty arrogant group, excepting Roxy and Eggsy, and, to a lesser extent, Tristan's candidate Henry.

The question now - and it's a pretty important, delicate consideration - is whether to give them the benefit of the doubt or to hammer home his statement that at Kingsman, you truly can't fuck around, or someone ends up dead.

As some of them seem to have taken his speech about the body bags rather lightly, he's inclined to order Amelia out sooner rather than later, and the night's underwater task will be a suitably dramatic setting.

He taps out the command on his keyboard, opening a private comms line to Amelia, whom he'd kitted out with an earpiece, nigh invisible to the naked eye.

"Amelia," he says, and the sudden spike in her vitals he can see on one of the monitors is the only indication she gives that she's heard him. "I want you out tonight, during the underwater task." Amelia pretends to roll over, disguising her hum of acknowledgement.

This confirmed, he brings his mug of tea - earl grey, with only the slightest dash of cream, no sugar - to his lips and takes a leisurely sip, and lets his mind wander through all the candidates. He admits to being rather surprised by Galahad's choice. Oh, he knows Harry Hart has always had a bit of a thing about underdogs, but that he seems only to have made his choice in the last twenty-four hours makes Merlin nervous. The other knights selected their protégés far earlier. In some cases, like Arthur or Percival, they've been training their candidates for years. Merlin worries that Eggsy is woefully unprepared, and that it will only lead to disappointment. Some Marines training does not a Kingsman make.

More interesting is Roxy's decision to befriend Eggsy, to make an ally of him. He'd already known that Roxy wasn't one to care about antiquated notions of class - anyone raised by Alistair Percival Mainwaring-Morton was unlikely to be snobbish in the least - but the fact that she chose to overtly offer her hand, an unambiguous declaration of alliance, painting both of them as direct opponents and therefore threats to Charlie and his followers, points to an intriguing capacity for strategy on her part. He suspects Roxy has no intention of pulling her punches, of hiding in the middle of the pack. She's going to prove to those who think she isn't capable, for whatever reason, that she's better than them, that she has every intention of seeing this through to the very end.

He's reminded of Percival's statement that _she's got more balls than the whole of the Oxford rowing team put together,_ and he's inclined to believe that his fellow knight has the right of it.

It's a deeper insight into the way she thinks, and only confirms the impression of her he received this afternoon. She's not one to back down from a challenge, and he has the entertaining inkling that she'll tackle everything in her path with a certain panache and effortless manners. No matter her fears, she'll push through them, but he knows just as well as any of the other Kingsmen that dealing with fears has to be handled very carefully.

It's the part of the recruitment process all the Kingsmen are the most wary of, and for good reason. Fears are very personal things, and for that reason, are tackled last in the recruitment process, in private, rather than in front of the other candidates, because such a thing could easily be quite harmful. It would smack more of humiliation rather than what it is meant to be: a lesson in the controlling of fear when faced with their worst nightmare.

But that won't be for some weeks at least, and so he doesn't need to worry about that now, much less which candidates such a lesson would apply to.

Sighing, he returns his attention to the reports lying on his desk, and considers what remarks he still needs to add to his preliminary notes on each recruit.

Between the two of them, Eggsy and Roxy are, in all likelihood, the most unusual, explosive things to happen to Kingsman. He has no idea what the end result will be, but if they start working as a team, as they appear to be willing to do, he knows the others will have a very hard time trying to beat them. He's self-aware enough to know, though, that at this moment in time, such a sentiment of his could be due to the fact that out of the whole cohort, he's been most impressed by Roxy.

Indeed, when he strode into the dormitory earlier in the evening, her reaction to his callous handling of the body bags struck him. He'd seen the flicker of nervousness in her eyes, in the slight tightening of her posture, before she'd mastered her expression. In a strange way, it reassures him - it would be a strange candidate indeed who did not fear death. In this case, instead of her nervousness being an expression of cowardice, it's an expression of logic and common sense, because she didn't back down, and he's more gratified than he can understand by this. He wonders how many examples he'll find of her brilliant bravery before he ceases to be anything but awed by it.

That singular moment when he'd spoken to Charlie, too, when her lips had curled into a smile of thankfulness before resuming a neutral expression, has left a greater mark on him than he'd realised at the time. How is it that they seem to be able to read each other so clearly? He can't understand it, can't explain it, this wonderful, unsettling way they seem to be able to comprehend and communicate with one another, so deeply, so immediately.

As he drinks his tea in measured swallows, he reflects that, in all his years as a Kingsman, he's never been so impressed by a recruit, from the outset, as he is by her.

It's the safest statement his mind can phrase.


	3. Chapter The Third

Breakfast is simple - scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice and earl grey - but the atmosphere is slightly more relaxed than the previous night. It's strange, this first meal in the conservatory opposite the library, warmed by the morning sunlight. This sense of normalcy feels strange. She could be anywhere, really, but then she looks at what she's wearing, the overalls and the combat boots, and she remembers. The events of the previous night feel like a hallucination, and she knows her brain has - not blocked the memories, precisely - locked them away so she doesn't have to deal with them yet. The - admittedly small - amount of sleep she got last night has helped, and she feels as though some sense of her natural equilibrium has returned.

She's not entirely certain how she feels about her pinstriped grey overall suit. Though she's essentially covered from neck to ankle, the garment does nothing to hide her form. It makes her - especially as the only woman - aware of her body, aware of the way she moves, in a way she's rarely experienced outside the dance studio. She doesn't know what has happened to the clothes in her suitcase, and Merlin hasn't appeared to tell them, so she supposes she may as well make the most of it.

At least the others are also in tweed or checked overalls as well, and the grumbles and swearing she heard this morning at the number of buttons they had to do up makes her feel as though they're all in the same boat.

One thing she is grateful for, however, is the boots. They're standard military issue, a reassuring constant in the sudden emotional and mental upheaval of the past twenty-four hours. She knows exactly how to tie them so she doesn't get blisters, and the remembered ritual from her time in the university RAF corps does a lot to restore her confidence.

She's nervous, of course, she has absolutely no idea what to expect, but she's feeling relatively calm. There's absolutely no point in worrying herself unnecessarily.

As she gracefully eats her scrambled eggs, the conversation around her turns to what training they've had. Charlie's boasting about his time in the RAF when Eggsy turns to her and asks, "What about you, Roxy?"

"Oxford, and the RAF."

Eggsy snorts something through his orange juice that sounds suspiciously like _I knew it_ and part of her wonders what it means. She doesn't think her time in the RAF and at Oxford have defined her. Shaped part of her character, certainly, and been witness to unique experiences, but define her? No. She also doesn't believe her character is in any way very similar to any of the others.

Then, because such is the inevitable way of things, Henry says, with an astonishing naivety, "So the same as Charlie, then."

"Yes." She shrugs.

And because the tension between her and Charlie has evidently not gone unnoticed - as if she could ever expect it to be, in a room full of trainee spies - Eggsy surmises, "The two of you knew each other before this, didn't you?"

She fights to keep her face impassive, taking another mouthful of tea, and nods.

If she thinks about it, she hasn't exactly been hiding her animosity, speaking politely but coldly to him when she has no choice, and ignoring him when she does. His reaction to her has been oddly subdued, no doubt due to her kneeing him in the crotch. She hopes he'll stay out of her way, but she doesn't think it'll last. He's too arrogant and she has no intention of keeping to the middle of the pack.

"So that's why Charlie was going on about some time you threw him out of a plane in the showers last night," Eggsy frowns, tilting his head at her, eyes twinkling with mirth. "Now that sounds like a story I want to hear. Do tell, Roxy."

She sniggers at the memory, and her smirk is pure, mischevious evil. "It was my first year at Oxford, and I'd only been flying a Cessna for about six weeks when he made a bet with me. If I could beat his speed record, he'd go hang-gliding clothed only in a massive pink flag - the colour deeply offended his sense of masculinity - in front of his commanding officer, and if he won I'd have to streak naked through the pub everyone in the corps used to go to."

"What happened?"

Roxy's smirk widens. "I won, of course. Shaved a clean ten-point-two-six seconds off his time. His commanding officer put him on latrine duty for four weeks and the next time we did a parachute jump he deliberately almost broke my leg."

Henry frowns. "Is that why the two of you hate each other so much?"

Suddenly, she's sick of it all. She bites down the hysterical laugh that threatens to erupt from her lips. Will she never be able to forget what happened? Move on with her life? Banish the spectre to the abyss of amnesia, where the memories belong? Grimly, she asks the two of them, "Do you have sisters?"

At their confused nods, she places her cutlery down on her plate, stands, and continues with a bitter smile that doesn't reach her eyes, "Don't ever let him near them."

Ignoring them as they stare after her, she walks out of the conservatory and sits on one of the sofas in the library, knees huddled to her chest, blankly gazing at the leather-bound books in the oak-panelled bookcases opposite. She doesn't want to see what they think of her - she doesn't know them nearly well enough to be comfortable about what she's inadvertently let slip. She does her breathing exercises, focusing on the comforting smell of leather and wood and books until the grandfather clock chimes the hour.

* * *

"As some of you will have learned last night… teamwork is paramount here at Kingsman," Merlin stands on the balcony above them. He's put a Barbour jacket on over his customary jumper, and that gives Roxy just the slightest inkling that whatever test he's got planned for them now, it's going to be highly physical and highly demanding. "Which is why you're going to pick a puppy," he continues, and Roxy fights to keep the sudden grin off her face. She thinks of all the dogs her uncle has at home, and she knows she's going to enjoy this. Though Merlin's attire still makes her wary, she heaves a sigh of mental relief. She's trained dogs before, and she wonders how much of her upbringing has been geared towards preparing for Kingsman aside from the obvious things, like her fencing training and her time in the RAF.

"Wherever you go, your dog will care for it. You will teach it. And by the time it's fully trained, so will you be." She detects just the slightest hint of humour in his last words, and she bites back a laugh. His offhand _those of you who are still here, that is_ doesn't frighten her in the way she expects it to. His references to death, she notices, are carefully circumspect, sometimes serious and other times more lighthearted, but always euphemistic.

Percival said to her a long time ago, after her first pony had to be put down due to colic when she was eight, when she'd been bawling her eyes out, unable to understand why nothing she and the vet had done had helped, that _sometimes you can't do anything, Roxy. Sometimes you can only watch, and mourn._ It's Merlin's method of coping with the deaths of his agents, she realises, and she shudders. The thought of being helpless like that…

His impassive gaze sweeps over all of them in his usual manner, until it gets to her. She doesn't know if it's because her newfound deductions can somehow be read on her face, in the slight tilt of her head, in the softness in her eyes - a softness she isn't aware she's radiating - but whatever he sees, his eyes flash with something - acknowledgement, vulnerability. She's not entirely certain she wants to be able to read him like that. It's too much. She suddenly feels raw, exposed ( _but then so is he_ ) and something passes between them, a deep sense of affinity, and she can do more than read him. She can understand him. She feels as though she knows him somehow, really knows him. It's unsettling, to say the least, this swarm of tangled emotions she feels rising in her throat.

He tears his gaze away from her, and says in a tone that is slightly more brusque than his normal one, betraying his agitation, to her, anyway - she doesn't think any of the other recruits catch it, "Do you understand?" They all nod, but don't move, waiting for the explicit command, which comes with a sweeping arm gesture to indicate the metal kennels all the puppies are sitting quietly in.

She makes for the puppies, eyes scanning quickly over them. She discards the pug immediately - that's got to be Merlin's idea of a joke, as it's far too small and won't be getting any bigger, and is not easy to train. She doesn't like german shepherds - they're too aggressive for her tastes, and is just about resigning herself to a border collie or a retriever (she's got nothing against them, but they're not for her) when she sees an elegant, almost dainty black poodle, and she smiles.

None of the others would ever think to go for a poodle, because of the current reputation they have as vanity pets, because the likes of Charlie see them as too girly, but she knows they're highly intelligent and easy to train.

She opens the cage and the black puppy steps daintily out at Roxy's coaxing. The others are laughing and joking, and the sense of fun about this strikes her as her new puppy licks her hand and barks softly, intelligent brown eyes considering her. Roxy giggles, actually giggles, and curls her fingers into the poodle's fur.

Merlin lets them have their fun for a minute or two, before asking them to fall in again. He makes a note of which puppy they've all chosen, and Roxy notes with dismay that Eggsy's gone for the pug.

"A poodle?" Eggsy says, a hint of laughter in his voice.

"What?" She replies archly. Then she takes pity on him and explains her reasoning. "They're gun dogs. Oldest working breed. Easy to train." She lets that sink in, before she continues, in the same arch tone. "A pug?"

"It's a bulldog, innit?" He replies, and she doesn't know whether to burst out laughing or groan. She shakes her head slightly, aware that Charlie, standing on Eggsy's other side, won't pass up an opportunity to provoke either of them, so she keeps her part of the conversation quiet.

"It'll get bigger, though, won't it?" He continues hopefully, and again she has to shake her head. He swears in response, and she has to bite down hard on her tongue when he catches Charlie smirking smugly at him, resisting the urge to punch Arthur's candidate smack in the mouth.

* * *

Her earlier prediction turns out to be correct. Merlin has indeed planned something fiendishly physical for them all, as the devilishly amused glint in his eyes tells her, and it turns out to be a turn about the ten kilometre obstacle course in the Kingsman grounds.

She's never been the best person at running - she's always found it rather boring - but she's probably in the best physical condition she's ever been, and her dancing training means she's no stranger to endurance tests.

That's not to say she doesn't find it difficult - because she does, but there would be no point in doing it if it were easy. So she grits her teeth and ignores the way her twenty kilo pack bites into her shoulders, and focuses on keeping stride with her puppy, which she's decided to call Syrah. The black puppy responds well to her gentle commands, only leaving her heel to yap playfully at the ropes she has to climb, licking her face in encouragement when she lands roughly after slightly mistiming her jump down from a five metre wall halfway through the course.

She's kept Merlin's comments about teamwork in the back of her mind, and so when Eggsy's pack gets caught in the barbed wire fifty centimetres from the ground as they're all crawling along on their bellies, noses and mouths close enough to the mud to taste it, she doesn't hesitate to turn back and help him untangle himself. Henry's only ten metres in front of them, so he also turns back to help, and they finish the course as a trio.

Eggsy shows them how to incorporate parkour into the way they tackle some of the obstacles, and Henry turns out to be very good at anything involving water. When they have to manouvre a raft across a river and one of Merlin's minions is firing a water cannon at them, Henry quietly and efficiently directs them into manouvring the raft to avoid being shot at.

The puppies, her poodle Syrah and Henry's Scottish Deerhound Rodolphus, help Eggsy's pug JB, Syrah taking JB by the scruff to deposit him on the raft. Roxy's certain she's imagined Syrah's elegant sniff of disapproval at the pug, and she doesn't wait for Syrah to get on the raft with them, instead using the opportunity to train her further, whistling her established signal for _follow._ Her puppy's tail wags excitedly as she jumps into the frigid river and swims next to them, her wet nose almost touching Roxy's extended, guiding hand as they punt their way down the river, swerving and managing to avoid the worst of the water cannon fire.

It's Henry who figures out the pattern of the strikes, and discretely taps out the pattern in morse on the stick he's using as a makeshift punting oar, and so they're able to work as a team. And it really is worth it, she realises, as they finish in front of Charlie and Rufus, coming to attention in front of Merlin, soaking wet, hair streaked with mud, (she doesn't even want to think about where else the mud has got to) muscles aching, laughing with relief and adrenaline, grinning so widely her jaw aches.

Merlin's approving nod as he glances at his watch to note their time sends a wave of euphoria through her so strong she almost sways. Though Merlin doesn't say anything, the slight upward lift to his lips and glint in his eyes tells her he's impressed, and she catches herself, disguising it by pretending Eggsy's slap on her shoulder is stronger than it is, asking herself with no small amount of alarm when Merlin's approval has become so important to her in that way. She's vaguely coming to the conclusion that she doesn't only want him to approve of her capabilities; it's more than that, but how much more she's reluctant to think about. It's _something,_ something tangible that makes her heart kick up a notch when they catch each others' eyes, when they read each other - no, _communicate_ so evocatively, without saying a word. They've never had a proper conversation, not even in the company of others.

And yet… and _yet -_


End file.
